


Inner Thigh Kisses

by viceversa



Category: The Fall (TV 2013), The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Discussion of s/h scars, F/F, Fluff, Love, No actual description of the act, Smut, self harm mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 12:33:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18469060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceversa/pseuds/viceversa
Summary: prompt: Stella/Scully + inner thigh kisses 😍





	Inner Thigh Kisses

Some scars are meant to be left private.

That was Stella’s reasoning, her belief, for keeping hers private. The small lines on the inside of her thighs and the bottoms of her feet were not a cry for help, they were not for anyone else. They weren’t _for_ her, either. They were a symptom in a larger problem, leftover marks from before she learned how else to cope.

Even long left to heal, even mostly faded and only a little bumpy, those scars were still private. She wasn’t ashamed. Stella didn’t feel shame for her past, she couldn’t do that to her self. Regret? Of course. But never shame. Her body and mind had been a battlefield for her inner self for most of her life, and she had won the physical fight more than a decade ago. But the battle scars remained.

Fucking men with her clothes mostly on had become habit because of it. Wearing stockings with short skirts, walking carefully in a swimsuit if others were present. Not that they were highly visible, not anymore. But just in case  

Consequently, and unable to put it in appropriate terms, no one had gone down on Stella Gibson without her thigh-highs on in years. Not while she was sober and in control, when she could bat away hands that wanted to roll her stockings down.

But she missed it, the feeling of skin on skin, of hands sliding up her bare thighs, of the sweet heat of inner thigh kisses blazing a trail to and from her center…

The few times she allowed it, not sober enough or too horny to think, the delicious intimacy of a tongue on her clit, a face buried between her legs, a nose hitting _just there_ , hands exploring _everywhere_ , and yes, _rip off my stockings, kiss my thighs_ , there was always that moment where they realized something was amiss.

That the delicious, smooth skin of Stella Gibson’s body did not exist in all places. That on her inner thighs, the bumpy, crisscrossed marks of a troubled girl and a strong woman stand in contrast against the milky white warmth of the rest of her.

Fingertips would go still, kisses would skid, as if the roughness of her past self-violence was a warning to stop or slow or run far, far away from damaged goods.

Then the look.

Stella would feel them stop, examine the roughness in confusion and then swift understanding - although not _real_ understanding, not the understanding of someone who _knows_ \- but the understanding of a cautionary tale brought to life before their eyes. They viewed the scars as separate from the woman, as if she had something _wrong_ with her when in reality they were a _part_ of her. Nothing more, nothing less.

Then, all the same, they’d look up. They’d make eye contact, or try to - Stella didn’t look back after the first one that was so full of _pity_ \- and then they’d move on. But it would be different and unsatisfying, avoiding the thighs, not even daring to touch the skin there any longer as if it was toxic and would spread to them. A mark of leprosy, of wrongness and the other. They’d be so _gentle_ and _sad_ and the last thing that cunnilingus should be is _sad_ , _for fuck’s sake_. And that was only when they would continue at all.

When they wouldn’t just leave, or pretend to get off, or speed things up and run at their first chance. Stella wasn’t hurt by it, not really. The people she chose to spend an occasional night with were not in it for the long run – they weren’t picked for their heart or their mind. But disappointment always followed, a sense of failure where Stella had not done anything wrong. She tried her best to avoid that feeling, and most of the time she got it right.

Stella had plans in place, rules for her one night stands. Telling them to leave the stockings, sometimes claiming it was a kink of hers to get them to stop. With men, she didn’t need to bother. The ones she chose didn’t care what she was wearing as long as their dick was satisfied at the end of the night – she never got a voluntary offer of oral sex. The women she chose were fewer, further between, but most were easily distracted before making any discoveries.

-

Dana Scully was the exception.

Turns out, she was the exception to a lot of Stella’s rules and expectations. A simple meeting at a bar, one that Stella thought would end in a satisfying night and never again, quickly spiraled into the best of surprises.

That was the word. Dana was a surprise, a constant one. From her shy flirting and blushing in that dark bar booth to now, to her kissing down Stella’s stomach, leaving her trembling on the bed and unaware of any sensation other than, _God_ , other than her _tongue_ and her hot mouth on her belly, her mons, down until _finally yes_ the width and heat of it directly on her clit, pulsing.

Stella was enraptured, eyes rolled back, fully submitted to the red-haired woman doing her best to drive her insane with lust and pleasure. Her skin was electrified, her body thrumming with _yes_ and _more, please Dana._

Which is precisely why she didn’t notice the sensation of stockings being pulled down her legs - it couldn’t compete with the electricity shooting through her spine, the ache and pull of her muscles, straining upward, never far enough, and then _God, yes_ with a push of her legs, spread out and held down she was gone, tumbling over the edge, bucking mindlessly into Dana’s face.

The high left her panting, flushed with heat and blood and the feeling of being alive. Stella was boneless, completely helpless, weak with pleasure as she floated back down to earth, aftershocks gently rocking through her in waves, Dana kissing everywhere she could reach to bring her down.

Dana trailed sloppy, open mouthed kisses along the crease of her open thighs, just as exhausted and satisfied as Stella was. She swelled with pride at reducing Stella to this state of afterglow - the woman she’d been so intimidated by at the beginning now her equal on their own playing field. Equal in their love, their sex, their partnership.

Dana took to exploring further, to kissing down her thighs, back and forth, and that’s when she felt them under her tongue, the sensation mirrored under her fingers on the opposite thigh.

And what’s when Stella came back to awareness, precisely the moment when Dana’s tongue paused and backtracked over a rough patch, as if confirming its existence. Stella was still shaking with bliss, her muscles not caught up to the sudden awareness of her brain, because when she tried to close her bare legs she barely managed a twitch.

She braced herself for the reaction. What would Dana do? She probably wouldn’t leave immediately, not like a few had done so disgusted by her skin. No, she’d probably get the detested _pity_ look, and Dana would crawl up and cuddle her, and then make her escape dignified and politely in the morning. And she’d conveniently forget to call Stella back, or her schedule would become busy, and they’d never see each other again, and —

Stella’s thoughts skittered to a halt as fast as they’d begun, because Dana didn’t do any of those things.

As soon as she’d felt the scars and recognized them, Dana went back to kissing across Stella’s thigh, fully committed to finish what she’d started, and thoroughly enjoying the journey. She loved the feeling of Stella blissed out, limp and hot under her tongue. She was getting turned on more and more as the seconds went on, as she came to Stella’s knee and skipped to her other leg, intent on trailing kisses upward this time.   

Stella lay still as Dana continued, her body newly flushed with heat as Dana switched legs, as her hands started rubbing up and down her legs, then up her torso, and further to thumb the sides of her breasts as she picked a spot on her upper thigh, a _sensitive_ spot, one that made Stella undulate, that made her ache deliciously again, that made her own hand thread through Dana’s hair as she sucked a hickey into the flesh no one had paid attention to before, that no one had, _oh, God, yes,_ that no one had ever just _accepted_ and _loved_ and _oh,_ fuck _, Dana._

-

Some scars are meant to be left private, but the definition of private does not have to mean secret. Stella learned that with Dana, and she learned that some people were just assholes, and that Dana’s love for her was for _all_ of her – not just the smooth, unscarred bits that others were so intent on.

It was more than just good sex – _great sex_ – to Stella. It was trust, vulnerability.

Stella learned that sharing that part of her with someone else, with Dana, was a beautiful thing and that it was called love. Dana _understood_ , where everyone else she’d given a chance to had run away. Stella had someone to share her life with, her whole life. To share past stories, future hopes. Someone to compare scars with, and discuss nightmares at two am, and love with inner thigh kisses.


End file.
